


Frayed

by summerofspock



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Blindfolds, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Hair-pulling, Japanese Rope Bondage, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rimming, Sexual Tension, Shibari, They love each other so much, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), that particular brand of pining thats like, were in love with each other and we both know it but cant do anything about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:07:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23797414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock
Summary: Aziraphale has seen pictures. He admired the artistry of ropes on the human form. It did not excite him in any way. Not the way that being close to Crowley does. Nothing could compare to the raw need that flashes through him when he pictures taking Crowley’s hand, kissing the devastating swell of his Adam's apple, nosing over his neck and down his obscenely low-cut shirt.**In which Crowley needs to attend a shibari class to get close to a human he's assigned to tempt. He asks Aziraphale to help.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 71
Kudos: 646
Collections: Summer's Kink Corner





	Frayed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pyracantha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyracantha/gifts).



> this is another installment in the series of kink gift fics I've been writing
> 
> This fic required a lot more research than my normal writing style so see end notes for resources used to better understand the art of shibari.
> 
> The quote from wikipedia that inspired the way this fic is written is "Japanese bondage is very much about the way the rope is applied and the pleasure is more in the journey than the destination."
> 
> Dear Pyracantha,  
> This fic is for you. I think you may have read every single one of my GO fics and left a comment on every chapter. It always meant so much to me that you were reading and following along. I've been blessed to get to know you through the GO-events server and through tumblr and you are such a light in this fandom and one of the kindest people I've been lucky enough to meet through the GO community.  
> Love -  
> Summer
> 
> CW: Crowley calls bondage 'perverted' at one point. This does not reflect my views. (Nor does it reflect Crowley's tbh but he says a lot of things he doesn't mean)

_2007_

"I need a favor."

Aziraphale starts at the sudden voice and looks to the door.

Crowley struts through it with what looks like a box of pastries in one hand and a careless expression on his face. A very practiced one.

Aziraphale tries not to think too hard about the last conversation Crowley started by requesting a favor. The fifty year silence. The inevitable bang of realization among the rubble of a church. The painful impossibility of it all. A promise housed in a thermos was the best Aziraphale could do in terms of an apology. A pathetic declaration of feeling that could change nothing.

Now they have this. This relationship that is not a relationship and that Aziraphale thinks they both know barely skirts the edges of deniability no matter what they both want.

"What sort of favor?" Aziraphale asks, setting aside the book he was reading before coming around the till.

It’s only been a few weeks since he last saw Crowley but it’s somehow always a revelation. He’s wearing his hair longer these days, just past his ears in red waves, an echo of the luscious curls Aziraphale remembers from Eden.

"Don't give me that sour look," Crowley says, tossing the box onto the nearest empty table.

"What look? You've brought some sort of baked good so I know it can't simply be part of the arrangement."

Crowley cuts him off with a careless wave of his hand and a noise that might be _yadda yadda_ that Aziraphale finds very rude.

"Can’t I bring you pastries because we're friends?" Crowley asks, arching a brow and popping the lid to the container as if to say _look upon my treasures._

"We’re not friends," Aziraphale says by rote. It once implied _we are adversaries._ But now it implies something else entirely. _We’re not friends. We’re not friends because we are so much more than that._

Crowley frowns at him and clamps the box shut. The sound of cardboard shushing against itself.

"Fine. Yes, I need a favor and it's...a bit weird."

Aziraphale gives him a small smile and retrieves the box of baked goods for himself, letting Crowley come around the till where they can more easily sit and chat. With a snap of his fingers, the door locks and the sign flips to closed.

"Weird..." Aziraphale prompts as he takes his usual seat in his desk chair and lets himself openly look at Crowley the way he wishes too. He really is a magnificent creature. Once, a very long time ago, Aziraphale had unkindly thought he looked skeletal, thinking that every part of Crowley was too thin and narrow, too pressed into unnatural angles. All Aziraphale sees now is a beloved picture. His crooked nose, his sharp chin, his thin mouth. If he'd remove his sunglasses, Aziraphale would see those eyes that have long since lost any sort of demonic meaning. They are Crowley's eyes and so they are beautiful.

"It's work-related at least," Crowley says, stuffing his hands into his too-small pockets. He's taken to wearing these jeans that have a sort of wet look to them, the shine serving only to highlight the thinness of his legs, the length of them.

"Ah, one of those then," Aziraphale says. "Why don't you have a seat? You're getting a bit loomy."

"I don't loom," Crowley grumbles but he sits.

Aziraphale miracles two plates, taking the blueberry pastry for himself and giving Crowley the iced chocolate croissant. No matter what he says, the demon really does have the most awful sweet tooth.

"I have to take a class and I need a partner," Crowley says. Aziraphale hands him his plate.

"Just a partner for a class? That hardly seems strange—"

"It’s a sex class," Crowley says and then his face starts to turn red even as he stares down Aziraphale who can’t help spluttering.

"Excuse me? There's such a thing as _sex classes_!"

"Well, more like bondage,” Crowley offers with an apologetic wrinkle of his nose.

"Bondage!" Aziraphale nearly shrieks, heart jumping in his chest.

Crowley tries to stand up and promptly notices the croissant in his lap. He sets it aside. "I've got a target that I can't get close enough to tempt. He runs some hip workshop for rope bondage. Shibari something."

Aziraphale's previously leaping heart stops dead.

Shibari. Kinbaku.

The art of binding.

He swallows.

He's seen pictures. He had admired the artistry of ropes on the human form. It had not excited him in any way. Not the way that being close to Crowley does. Nothing could compare to the raw need that flashes through him when he pictures taking Crowley’s hand, kissing the devastating swell of his Adam's apple, nosing over his neck and down his obscenely low-cut shirt.

Crowley’s blathering on, hardly noticing the fact that Aziraphale is staring at his throat. “It’d just be basic knots. Maybe a few tying of hands or feet. Nothing perverted or anything.”

"And who would be doing the, er...binding?" Aziraphale asks

Crowley's jaw clicks shut. "You're not—s'not just a straight no, then?"

"I do believe I owe you from— " Aziraphale searches his mind. "From that awful debacle with the Chunnel."

"I was a right prick about that."

"Yes, well, I reserve my right to be a prick about this. Once it's done."

Crowley stares at him. Swallows. "Right then. Saturday? 10 AM?"

Aziraphale's hands barely tremble as he picks up his plate. "Saturday."

* * *

Crowley is wearing some skin tight leotard that tucks into exercise shorts. Aziraphale is torn between drooling over the fact that he can see the crest of his hip bones and mocking him within an inch of his life.

Crowley seems to notice his judgment because he raises an eyebrow and says, “What? I’m not tying rope around my suit.”

Aziraphale has chosen to wear his normal ensemble, sans his overcoat. He’s already doing something out of his comfort zone and he’s not about to wear _workout clothes_.

The class is in a second floor studio only a fifteen minute walk from Aziraphale’s shop. He’s spent the week preparing himself for this. He will be touching Crowley. All the knots for tying hands and feet, they looked intimate when Aziraphale had researched them the night before.

He tells himself it will be fine.

The instructor is a young man with long black hair that he wears in a loose bun atop his head. He’s dressed much like Crowley and Crowley seems to notice, giving Aziraphale a very knowing smirk. He ignores him as other pairs arrive.

There are about twenty people in the studio when it’s all said and done and at 10:05, the man claps his hands and draws the attention of the room.

“Hello, class,” he says in practiced tones. “I’m Martin and I’ll be teaching you shibari basics today. For the first hour we will go over knots and two different cuffing methods. For the last half hour, we’re going to do something a bit more fun, but I’ll save that as a surprise.

“So grab a kit from the shelves and take a seat on your mats and we can begin!”

Crowley goes to collect a little basket of ropes and shears before settling onto the ground next to Aziraphale. Their knees brush and neither of them move to pull away.

Aziraphale’s heart is racing and he doesn’t know how he’s about to get through the day if a simple touch to the knee nearly sends him into cardiac arrest.

Martin takes them through various knots: lark’s head, munter, prusik. Something called a boola boola single column which makes Crowley snort until Aziraphale prods him into silence.

Aziraphale worries turn out to be entirely unfounded. He doesn’t have to touch Crowley. Martin has them practice the knots on themselves first. Aziraphale is relieved he doesn’t have to touch Crowley. They are both so careful normally. They both want too much.

At least Aziraphale does.

Finally, Martin stands at the front of the room and claps his hands again. “So I know you are all here to learn shibari and, of course, we start with the basics. The actual tying. But I know wrapping ropes around yourself isn’t exactly what you were looking to learn so I always like to finish my intro lessons with the hishi karada.”

 _The rope dress,_ Aziraphale’s mind supplies against his will.

“Everyone stand up and we can begin.”

Aziraphale’s heart is in his throat as he stands and looks at Crowley.

“What is this?” Crowley hisses.

Aziraphale doesn’t know how to explain. “It’s a—er—decorative rope tying around the body. It’s called a rope dress.”

“Oh,” Crowley says. He frowns. He goes pink.

“We don’t have to—”

“It’s fine,” Crowley snaps and Aziraphale tries to believe him.

“Make an overhand knot at the bight of the rope and make sure to leave a loop at the end,” Martin explains, demonstrating with his own partner. “You’ll make sure the knot rests at the base of their neck and bring the two strands of rope to the front where you’ll make a second overhand knot just below the suprasternal notch.”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and looks at Crowley. He can't see his eyes beneath the glasses but his face is relaxed if still a bit pink.

"I'm going to touch you now," Aziraphale breathes , as close as he dares come before beginning to wrap the length around his body.

He makes the overhand knot as instructed, brought back to times long ago when ropes were the latest technology and he could make hand ties in his sleep. Crowley is just standing in front of him, saying nothing, and then Aziraphale is slipping the knot over his head, a light collar.

"Keep the bonds loose for this first go around. Focus more on pattern than tension."

Aziraphale lets out a breath and Crowley does too.

"You should make at least two distinct ties beneath the one at the clavicle, each about a hand’s width apart."

Aziraphale steps in front of Crowley and adjusts the rope. It feels oddly like he's about to adjust Crowley's tie, tie it for him. And yet he's never done that

As many times as he's fantasized about Crowley being by his side in the mornings, getting ready for the day, tweaking his bow tie with a wink before disappearing out the door, Aziraphale has not done anything so domestic as that.

His knuckles brush the flat plane of Crowley's chest. Crowley is slightly taller than him but the difference like this is negligible. His chest expands, contracts, a beating heart. Aziraphale feels the rhythm in his own chest as he moves slowly down the rope.

Over, under, tighten. Don't think about it. Don’t think about pulling him down by this rope and kissing him.

"Take the rope and slip it under your partner's genitals. You can add a happy knot here which can stimulate the clitoris. Or the perineum if your partner doesn't have one of those," Martin adds with a cheeky grin.

The class laughs awkwardly but Aziraphale can't manage it. His heart has been tugged into his mouth.

"No happy knot for you then," Aziraphale says weakly.

"Nope," Crowley grates out, moving his legs shoulder width apart.

And then Aziraphale is feeding the length of the rope between his legs, one forearm dipping below his groin and the other coming around his bum to grasp the end of the hemp cord. Aziraphale's torso is pressed close to Crowley's side, Crowley's damp infernal heat a very real brand down his waistcoat. It heats his buttons, stirs something in his stomach.

Aziraphale swallows and steps back.

"Now make sure your partner is comfortable and tie the rope to the loop at the base of their neck.

Aziraphale places a soothing hand on Crowley's shoulder. The demon sucks in a breath.

"Alright so far?"

Crowley nods jerkily.

The orator says, "If your partner has a penis, you may need to split the rope to accommodate their genitals. Make sure to do that before tying off."

Aziraphale's hands are sweating. His heart is racing. This is awful. The most exquisite banquet laid out before him with no permission to taste.

He takes a deep breath and reaches around Crowley, skimming his hand over his hip.

There is some element of plausible deniability here. They are friends. They are so much more than that. And yet Aziraphale wants Crowley and Aziraphale knows Crowley feels the same way. They can't take that final step...and yet.

Aziraphale holds the rope loosely at the base of Crowley's spine as his other hand slips between the rope just above Crowley's cock. He hesitates for only a moment before splitting the ropes, tugging each thread on either side of Crowley's penis. In Crowley's tight garb, Aziraphale can feel how he's beginning to grow hard. How he radiates heat.

He slides his hand over Crowley's half-hard cock, fully splitting the rope so it cradles his testicles before joining once more at his perineum.

"Alright?" Aziraphale whispers into Crowley's ear. He can't help it. It's a room full of people and yet this is the most intimate they've ever been. Perhaps they ever will be.

"Yeah," Crowley says, an element to his voice Aziraphale doesn't recognize. Lust and heat wrapped together in a way he thinks Crowley has never allowed him to hear before.

Aziraphale slips the rope through the loop. It lays in a flat brown line along Crowley's spine. There's something pleasing about the way it highlights Crowley's natural asymmetry.

"Now pass your ropes back around to the front and hook them through the knots you made."

Aziraphale takes the right rope and comes around to Crowley's front. What he sees is breathtaking.

Crowely, hair pulled back, emphasizing the high slopes of his cheekbones, made to look even sharper by the heat staining them. His throat is wrapped in cords. The knot is fairly loose and Aziraphale imagines what it would look like slightly tighter, so that the ropes dug in, so that Crowley's throat was the tense line beneath the slip of the rope.

Aziraphale wrapped those cords there. Crowley let him.

He can see Crowley's nipples through the thin fabric of his shirt and the rope brushes over one of them. Crowley's tremor is nearly imperceptible but Aziraphale notices. He notices most things about Crowley. He imagines a different scenario, or maybe exactly this one, but alone. Crowley is bare and Aziraphale traces the basin of his sternum with his fingers while he kisses Crowley's chest, plays with his nipples until he's crying out Aziraphale’s name.

Aziraphale finishes the tie and lets the rope hang. He breathes. He looks at Crowley as he lowers his arms to his sides.

He's hard. There is no denying it now. Aziraphale's own arousal is only hidden by virtue of the looseness of his trousers.

Aziraphale wants to please Crowley so badly that it hurts.

He reaches around him to grasp the other rope, letting his inner arm rest against Crowley's side for a beat too long.

"Arms up, love," Aziraphale says, endearment slipping out. He squeezes his eyes shut at Crowley's sharp inhalation. This is a bad idea.

Crowley's arms go up and Aziraphale ties a second knot.

It's just that. Breathing together, chests brushing, knuckles dragging over skin, the slip of the rope, the building of a diamond pattern over Crowley's slim chest. The sight tightens around Aziraphale's heart. Gorgeous, bound, mine.

Aziraphale finishes wrapping the rope a final time around Crowley's hips. They are so thin. They'd fit in his palms. He indulges himself and grips one. The arousal swirling in his gut is no stranger to him, but it's taken on a sharp, possessive edge. He is a man starved, desperate for one thing.

"The final step is to tie off the dress at the lower back. You can wind the excess cord around the bracing rope. This is especially important if you're expecting to wear the dress for an extended length of time."

Aziraphale does as he's told, hands dragging over the small of Crowley's back up to his shoulder blades. He wants to drop a kiss to his shoulder. He resists.

Instead he says, "You're being so good for me."

Crowley's shivers and a sound escapes his throat. A whine.

Short and quiet and not nearly enough, but Aziraphale knows he's going to replay it in his mind for centuries.

"If you do wear the dress for an extended time period, it will leave patterned marks behind. It's important to take care of the person being tied. Pay attention to discomfort. And as always, communicate and stay safe."

The man smiles and looks around the room. "You’ve all done great. You can undo the ropes by undoing the knots at the neck."

Aziraphale is so hard that it almost hurts to move. He can't touch Crowley again so he subtly snaps his fingers, letting the knot uncoil.

He takes a deep breath and steadies himself. He's playing the good partner. He wants to be a good partner.

The ropes are removed and Aziraphale mourns their absence

He sees the ghost of their presence on Crowley's neck and he wants to kiss it better. He wants to take off his tight clothes and see if those marks exist elsewhere.

"I should talk to the instructor," Crowley says quietly. Aziraphale nods, desperately trying to find words.

"Should I—should I wait for you downstairs?"

Crowley looks at him. The moment hangs suspended. He shakes his head. "Don't know how long it will take."

He goes to step away but Aziraphale stops him with a hand on his arm. It's electric, a buzz. After every touch they just exchanged, Aziraphale is overwhelmed by every millimeter of contact between them.

"Would you stop by the shop after? We can go to dinner."

Crowley cocks his head.

Aziraphale worries that Crowley will run off. The way he always does when something brings his real emotions to close to the surface. Aziraphale wants to keep Crowley near him, to pretend at normalcy. They both need it.

Aziraphale doesn't want to miss him for fifty years.

"Yeah, alright. I don't know how long this will take."

"I'll wait for you," Aziraphale says simply. And he means it.

* * *

_2021_

Crowley is on the bed with black silk blindfold covering his eyes. He’s a pretty picture. Just for Aziraphale

Two years. Two years since the apocalypse.

Two years to the day since Aziraphale could kiss Crowley in public. And in private.

They’re here in Crowley’s flat after their anniversary dinner. Aziraphale has been studying. It’s sort of a gift for Crowley, two years after being together and nearly fifteen years after Aziraphale had even had the idea at all.

When Aziraphale had suggested it, Crowley had grasped the rope in his hand and grinned. “You want to tie me up then?”

“As if you wouldn’t love it,” Aziraphale had retorted and Crowley had promptly blushed.

And now, he’s laid out in that same lovely rope dress from that day so long ago, arms bound behind his back. The brown interlacing cords create a diamond pattern across his front, framing his cock, and—Aziraphale knows—pressing up against his perineum. He’s not gagged even though Aziraphale offered. Only blindfolded.

It makes Aziraphale feel powerful. He has something delicate and beloved in his hands.

He’s still in his shirt and briefs but he can’t wait. He climbs onto the bed, hears the sharp intake of Crowley’s breath. Other than that, he stays silent.

Aziraphale has one more thing he’d like to do.

He runs careful hands over the uneven terrain of the ropes, tugging and pushing at the knots in a way that has Crowley straining against the ropes holding his hands behind his back.

“I’m going to tie your legs,” Aziraphale says, laying his palms flat against Crowley’s thighs so he can feel the soft hair there. “Sit up, love.”

A lovely whine rumbles through Crowley’s chest as he obeys without question. The muscles in his abdomen flex and ripple as he rises up without the help of his hands. The way Crowley’s body moves has always fascinated Aziraphale but, like this, it is vulnerable and all the more precious for it.

Aziraphale shuffles behind him on his knees. Crowley’s hands form a beautiful tableau, cuffed by ropes against his lower back, painted fingernails curled against pale palms.

“You’re being so good for me,” Aziraphale says, because Crowley is but also because he wants to see Crowley quake.

He summons the other lengths of rope and does what he has practiced so many times in the shop. Wrap around thigh and calf, lark’s head, wrap again, even the tension, tie. He’s memorized it and yet here, listening to Crowley’s uneven breathing, Aziraphale finds himself faltering.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” Aziraphale says before pressing a kiss to Crowley’s shoulder blade.

Crowley makes a choked noise of acknowledgement that Aziraphale understands entirely. As he passes his hands over Crowley’s thighs, he feels the heat of his cock against the back of his knuckles. It strains up to his stomach, a bead of precome at the slit. Aziraphale is honored to know exactly what it tastes like.

Aziraphale moves on to the second thigh and he’s aching in his own pants. He has so many plans for the evening and yet he worries he’ll make a mess of himself just looking at Crowley like this.

When he finishes, he grasps Crowley by the back of his harness. “I’m going to put you on your belly.”

Crowley nods sharply but stays silent.

“Are you alright with the blindfold?” Aziraphale asks, adjusting Crowley’s legs and tipping him forward. He’s practically hogtied. He would be if Aziraphale tied his cuffs to his legs. Perhaps another time.

Crowley humphs again, sounding quite lost. Aziraphale can tell he’s overwhelmed and that’s so utterly pleasing that he has to take a moment just to appreciate the sight before him. He’s so lucky to have this. The world didn’t end and they have each other. They have anniversaries and dates and the rest of existence to be together.

Aziraphale grasps Crowley’s shins where his calves are pressed back against his thighs and spreads his legs slightly wider. Enough that Aziraphale knows it must burn and stretch but that won’t matter for much longer because he’s about to be very distracted.

Aziraphale kisses the high arches of Crowley’s feet, his delicate ankles. That anything is delicate about Crowley continues to astound him and yet, every day he discovers how, between them, Crowley is the sensitive one, the one prone to shatter.

Spreading his hands over Crowley’s arse, he thumbs him open and admires the length of rope between his buttocks, the little knot currently pressing just above his balls. Pretty thing.

Aziraphale shrugs off his shirt and, on second thought, his vest as well. As he lays on his belly, he enjoys the feel of Crowley’s satin sheets on his body, scraping against his chest hair.

Gripping the rope between Crowley’s cuffs, Aziraphale kisses the back of his thighs, nosing over the cleft of his arse until he can dip his tongue inside. It’s the texture of his hair against Aziraphale’s face, the heady taste of him on his tongue. It’s all he can feel even as the scratch of the cord under his hand grounds him as he pulls it away from Crowley’s body so he can lick over him.

Crowley’s moaning now, his body shaking, thrumming against Aziraphale’s face. He presses deeper so he can slip his tongue inside. Crowley makes a sound like he’s being carved out, a wail that tapers off into nothingness. Aziraphale knows he can make him come like this. He found out during those early days after the apocalypse when they spent entire weeks in bed, memorizing each others’ bodies.

The muscles of Crowley’s back are uselessly tensing under Aziraphale’s knuckles with every stroke of his tongue, but he doesn’t relent. He wants Crowley to ache before he comes apart. So Aziraphale can take care of him after.

Crowley’s hips begin to stutter, looking for friction but his range of movement is so restricted that he can’t manage. Aziraphale takes mercy on him and withdraws, a string of spit drawn out between his tongue and Crowley’s skin.

He kneads Crowley’s arse with his hands, spreading him open so he can brush his thumb over him. Crowley cries out.

“So good, darling. Will you be good for a little longer? For me? I know you want to be good for me.”

“Ye-yes,” Crowley sobs, shoulders heaving with the effort of getting out the noise as he twists his head to speak. The blindfold has slipped on one side and Aziraphale can see the spread of Crowley’s russet lashes.

Aziraphale summons the bottle of lube that usually sits nestled in Crowley’s bedside. He spreads some on his fingers before slipping a single one over Crowley’s perineum and then dipping inside.

Crowley clenches down on the intrusion and then lets out a long relieved breath as his shoulders melt into the mattress.

“Please, Aziraphale,” Crowley gasps out, his thighs flexing under his bonds.

“Please what?” Aziraphale asks as he lazily fucks Crowley with one finger. He places a steadying hand on the shin beside him and kisses the place where rope meets skin.

“Fuck me,” he pleads, head still twisted awkwardly to the side. His eyelashes are fluttering. His lips are red from where he’s been biting them.

Aziraphale withdraws his hand and shucks off his briefs. He’d been so pleased with Crowley that he’d entirely forgotten himself. With freshly lubed fingers, he strokes himself back to hardness before caressing Crowley’s bottom, teasing that tight ring of muscle with his thumb.

Crowley arches his back and Aziraphale wildly wishes he could film this. Or perhaps take pictures of Crowley in these bonds, being so beautiful for him.

He gets out of bed and ignores Crowley’s disconsolate whine. Grabbing Crowley’s hips, he tugs him to the edge of the bed so that his bound legs come to rest on either side of Aziraphale’s waist. Seeing Crowley like this pulls at the deep reaches of his heart. He’s an angel. He knows every type of love and yet he keeps finding new ways to love Crowley.

He slicks himself with a miracle and pulls the rope aside so he can push into him slowly. As always, it knocks the breath from his lungs. He’d be unsteady on his feet if he weren’t so focused on taking care of Crowley.

It’s the push pull of Crowley’s body, the heat of him. Aziraphale ignores the thing inside him crying out to sink into the hilt. The hungry animal that wants to find satisfaction here. Aziraphale inhabits a human body. A body that knows what it needs.

He fists one hand around the rope linking Crowley’s cuffs to steady himself and then presses deeper. He can feel Crowley’s moans, feel his muscles tighten and release as he gets closer to the edge.

He pauses when he’s fully seated, petting Crowley’s thighs, his hips, his back. Then, delicately, but with clear intent, he cards his hand through Crowley’s hair and _pulls_ , a final point of tension that he knows will undo him.

Crowley’s whole body shakes as he comes, sobbing Aziraphale’s name.

And that’s it.

It’s what Aziraphale wanted.

So Aziraphale fucks him, one hand in his hair, the other gripping the handle of his cuffs. For one brutal moment, Aziraphale knows that no matter what he does, Crowley will take it. The obscene sound of skin slapping fills the room as Aziraphale takes his pleasure in Crowley’s body. The tension in Aziraphale’s own muscles begins to fray. He’s close but he wants—

He withdraws abruptly, fisting his cock until he spills over Crowley’s lower back, his bound hands.

Chest heaving as he tries to take in air, Aziraphale undoes the ties that bind Crowley’s legs before rubbing soothing circles into the marked skin.

He rolls Crowley onto his back and climbs onto the bed to push off his blindfold and kiss him. “How are we doing, darling?”

Crowley’s eyes flutter open and he makes a sound low in his throat like he can’t find it in himself to make words happen.

The sheets are smeared with Crowley’s spend and his cock is a cum-streaked mess. Aziraphale frowns and snaps his fingers to clean him up before getting to work on the ropes.

He could miracle them away but he likes the thought of unwrapping Crowley, of revealing new and pretty patterns on his skin.

He’s not disappointed. The dress has left red indentations on Crowley’s sternum. Red diamonds from the intersecting ropes cross over his chest.

“You look beautiful,” Aziraphale says, kissing Crowley softly.

“No, you,” Crowley says petulantly, but he has so little energy that it’s barely coherent. Aziraphale laughs at him which earns him a scowl.

Aziraphale moves him up the bed and gathers him against his chest. “What would you like now, my dear? I bought those cupcakes you like and there’s a nice bottle of champagne on ice in the kitchen—”

“Just this,” Crowley says, pushing his face into Aziraphale’s bare chest.

“Cuddling it is,” Aziraphale replies. It’s his preferred aftercare as well, but he likes to see to Crowley’s needs first in these situations.

“Demons don’t cuddle,” Crowley says, tightening his arms around Aziraphale.

Aziraphale runs his fingers through his hair, feeling very indulgent. “Of course they don’t. This is purely for my benefit.”

Crowley grunts his affirmation but Aziraphale can feel his smile against his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> the tutorials I used are [here](https://www.theduchy.com/)  
> i also read [this](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Japanese_bondage) wikipedia article


End file.
